To Have and to Hold
by Mikki13
Summary: And he has to pinch himself to believe that Sarah Walker, the woman who stole his heart on their very first disastrous date, is waiting in a cream-colored dress to walk down the aisle and become his wife. Part of the "Full Circle" series.


**A/N:** Written as a gift!fic and partially inspired by the final chapter of brickroad16's "Seven Times" (which you should so read if you haven't already), this was originally intended to be a fluffy one-shot. And then someone asked me to expand. The prequel to this story can be found in "Full Circle," and several one-shots are currently waiting in the wings. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

~*~

Waves crash against the nearby shore, causing the soft beige sand to shift into subtle patterns as the morning sun beats softly upon the scene below. Standing anxiously at the head of the makeshift rose-strewn aisle, Chuck attempts to remain calm as various guests shuffle into their seats, sending him grins of well wishes along the way. Morgan stands by his side, Awesome and a thin-lipped Casey beside him, all dressed to the nines in tuxedos and sky blue cumberbunds. But even as the music begins to play and bridesmaids walk down the sandy aisle, he can't stop himself from wondering again if maybe this is some sort of mistake. Or perhaps a dream, a wild fantasy brought about by eating too many slices of pepperoni pizza. _(He really should have put his foot down when Morgan ordered ten extra large pizzas for his bachelor party.)_

Because anything makes more sense than the truth. And he has to pinch himself to believe that Sarah Walker, the woman who stole his heart on their very first disastrous date, is waiting in a cream-colored dress to walk down the aisle and become his wife.

Swallowing hard, he forces himself to put his fears aside. Because somehow he doesn't think that Sarah would appreciate it if her groom fainted before they could exchange their wedding vows. It just doesn't seem like something that would look good in their wedding album.

Even so, he finds himself giving his sister a wobbly smile as she grins at him happily, the joy apparent on her glowing face. He finds his hands traveling to his bow tie, tugging nervously at the scrap of fabric when the opening chords of the wedding march sound across the sandy beach. And he finds his knees shaking visibly when his bride appears at the end of the aisle, a soft smile lighting up her radiant face.

But when Sarah Walker begins her march down the wedding aisle, her muscular arm linked through Steven Bartowski's, she catches his gleaming eyes and winks. And suddenly, the fear disappears altogether. Suddenly, he can't take his eyes off the beautiful woman marching rythmically toward his side. And suddenly, he remembers why they're here.

Sarah Walker gave up the CIA to become his wife. _(He still remembers the night he found her waiting by the fountain to give him the news, her heart in her eyes while she waited for his awed response.)_

And she chose to marry him here, on this gorgeous beach, where they'd first decided to offer one another their trust. Where she'd first asked him to let her into his life, even if for a completely different reason.

So when Morgan leans over and whispers loudly, "Might I say that your lady is looking _good_," Chuck can't help but grin in agreement.

~*~

A cacaphony of clinking crystal fills the hall, breaking into conversations and causing half the guests to redirect fervent glances and meaningful grins toward the main table. The sudden shift in attention leads Sarah to shuffle awkwardly, and she wonders again why she agreed to a reception after the wedding. The ceremony was mandatory, of course, but being the center of attention is another thing altogether. At least not when it doesn't involve drop kicks and throwing knives.

Furrowing her forehead, she turns to Chuck to ask him about the meaning behind the clinking silverware. But before she can utter a word, he links his arm through hers and gives her a sly smile. "I think they want us to kiss," he murmurs.

Arching a brow, she feels a small twinge of discomfort as she weighs his statement. But then she registers the gleam in Chuck's eye and the smirk on his lips, and the hesitation is suddenly replaced with a touch of sauciness. "Oh, really?" she whispers. When he nods, she begins slowly inching toward his lips, feeling a slight thrill when the movement causes him to shift restlessly.

"It is tradition," he replies, going slightly cross-eyed as his gaze drops to her mouth.

"Well, we wouldn't want to upset tradition," Sarah declares, closing the distance and brushing her lips against his own. The moment they touch, the guests are all but forgotten and the sounds of clinking crystal fade away. The only thing that permeates the haze is the texture of his soft, warm lips, the feel of his tongue as it explores her eager mouth, and the touch of his fingers as they cup her face and drift through her hair. She purrs softly as a shiver courses down her spine and goosebumps break out onto her arms.

Unfortunately, the kiss ends abruptly when a series of jeers and catcalls erupts from the forgotten audience. "Get a room!" comes the cry of a BuyMore employee, grinning as his buddies poke him in the ribs. Nearby, Casey sits with folded arms, a sarcastic smile playing across his lips.

A tinge of pink rushes across Sarah's cheeks as she clears her throat and looks down at her plate. Still, she can't stop the silly grin from spreading across her face. After years of holding back, it's incredible to be able to kiss Chuck Bartowski whenever she feels like it, CIA be damned.

_CIA be damned._ The words echo in her mind, jarring her back to reality. Even after a year away, she still has a hard time comprehending the fact that this is her life. She will never again be Agent Walker. She will never again be given orders, never again face life and death obstacles. Even as a detective for the Burbank Police Department, she's really just a civilian now. A civilian whose sole purpose isn't to protect the United States or even to guard one innocent asset. When she chose to become Sarah Bartowski, everything else ceased to exist.

Somehow, the thought has never made her feel more free.

But her thoughts are interrupted when the sound of clinking crystal echoes through the hall once more. Looking around for the source of the sound, she smiles faintly when she notices Morgan standing on his chair, his wine glass raised to the room.

"Ahem," he says loudly, looking pointedly at the group of employees. When the noise dies down, he turns to the pair. "To Chuck and Sarah," he says, motioning to them with his wine glass. "'Cause if any guy's gonna get lucky, it's gotta be Chuck."

The double meaning isn't lost on Chuck, who chokes into his champaigne flute as Sarah leans in to whisper conspiratorially into his ear. "We'll see," she says waspishly, grinning when he gapes at her.

"Seriously, though," Morgan continues, clearing his throat, "Chuck's been my buddy for twenty-five years now, and he's the best friend a guy could have. He's saved me from playground bullies, rescued me from crazy women –" At this point, Morgan's eyes widen and he turns to Anna. "Not you, honey!" he calls to his fiance, and Sarah glances over to see her bridesmaid's eyes narrowed. But when Morgan's expression turns pleading, she humphs loudly and appears slightly placated.

"Anyway," he hastily returns to his speech, "If anyone deserves happiness, it's my best buddy, Chuck Bartowski. Sarah, you're a lucky woman. I wish you both the best of luck."

Chuck's face splits into a grin as he salutes Morgan with his champaigne flute. "Thanks, buddy," he calls, tightening his grip in Sarah's hand. And for the first time, Sarah actually agrees with Morgan: she _is_ a lucky woman.

Ellie stands next, turning to her brother and his wife with glistening eyes. "Chuck," she begins, "you've been a pain in my neck for the last thirty years." She grins as soft laughter ripples through the audience. "But during that time," she continues, a lump rising in her throat, "You've also been my best guy. We've been through a lot, little brother, but we've always gotten through it together. You deserve the world, and I'm so glad that you've found someone to share it with."

Chuck swallows hard. "Thank you, sis," he says solemnly, smiling warmly at his sister.

A thin sheen of tears appear in Ellie's eyes, but she blinks them back and turns to Sarah. "And you, Sarah Walker Bartowski," she continues, her own smile just as warm as her brother's. "I'm so glad you've joined our family. You're the best sister a girl could ask for. And now that there's two of us, we're gonna have to team up against these guys and show them who's boss."

"Definitely," Sarah agrees, chuckling softly as Chuck visibly tenses at the thought.

But perhaps the best speech comes next, as the applause dies down and Casey comes stiffly and unexpectedly to his feet. "To Walker and Bartowski," he says, his tone just as stiff. "Because if someone has to buy into this love garbage, it might as well be you two." As Sarah bites back a laugh, he nods at the pair. "Many happy returns," he finishes gruffly. He sits down quickly, his eyes fixed on the ground by his feet.

"Thank you, Casey," Chuck replies. He's clearly unsure how he's supposed to take the impromptu speech. But even so, she knows it meant something to him. Because the very fact that the even-tempered, emotion-controlled John Casey stood up in a room full of people and toasted their happiness means the world to her. (She just wishes she had a good camera to capture the moment.)

~*~

"You're kidding me, right?" Sarah queries, arching a brow at her new husband.

"Not at all," Chuck replies pleasantly, his face splitting into the goofy grin that always melts her heart. "It _is_ tradition after all."

Sarah chuckles softly and shakes her head. "More tradition," she gripes playfully. "Well, okay," she says, stepping closer to Chuck and wrapping her arms around his neck. "But if you drop me, I'm going to make sure you live to regret it."

"Why does that statement give me chills?" comes his dry response, and her lips twist into a saucy smile. But before she can respond, he bends his knees and scoops her into his arms.

Surprised laughter bubbles up from deep within her throat, highlighting their gradual walk down the pathway to their new front door. The yellow house is a two-story affair with three bedrooms, a study, a living room, a den and two bathrooms. She doesn't know what they're going to do with all the space, but she couldn't bring herself to turn it down. Not when he'd begged her mercilessly to make the purchase, hands clasped and curls falling randomly across his face. It had been all she could do not to ask the real estate agent for a few _quiet_ moments with her fiance.

Now, as her new husband carries her over the threshold in unsteady arms _(he's good at many things, but Chuck Bartowski has never been a weight lifter)_ , she wonders for a moment if she's entered some crazy dream. If maybe she'll wake up tomorrow morning in Baghdad or Beirut, with orders to track down the latest international drug smuggler or world arms trafficker. But then an errant curl falls over Chuck's forehead, his cheek brushes against her flushed face, and she pushes the thought from her mind. This _is_ real, and she's going to live it to the fullest.

Her arms still wrapped tightly around his neck, she gazes into his eyes, her own alight with unguarded emotion. The sight causes his breath to catch as his own eyes fill with awe. Even after all this time, he relishes the moments when she lets her emotions shine through. Leaning forward, he captures her lips in a gentle caress, savoring the texture of her satiny mouth as he awkwardly kicks the door closed behind them.

Together, they stumble into their new house and their waiting bedroom, Sarah still clasped haphazardly in his arms. Dipping his new wife onto the bed, Chuck nuzzles her throat and runs tender kisses along the crook of her neck. "So on a scale of one to ten," he teases, relishing her gasp when his mouth brushes her ear, "how would you rate our wedding night so far?"

"Oh, I don't know," she replies breathily. "An eight?" When he falters in his ministrations, she leans back onto her elbows and winks.

"Cute," he intones, reaching down to tickle her silk-clad stomach. But after a moment of laughter and blue-eyed glares of warning, he turns slightly serious. "Really, though," he says, "Are you glad you quit the CIA? Are you really okay with your new job?"

She knows what he's saying; she can sense the words between the lines. But Sarah Walker has never been very good with talking, and Sarah Bartowski is no different. Still, as she studies the creases that have appeared on his forehead, a twinge of tenderness reverberates through her chest. And she decides that if Chuck Bartowski needs to be reassured, then she's more than willing to reassure him.

A coy look flashes across her face and suddenly, Chuck's no longer the one on top; Sarah has flipped him onto his back and straddled his hips. "Chuck?" she murmurs playfully, pinning his hands above his head as he stares at her with widened eyes.

"Yes?" he replies, his voice slightly gruff as his heart beats an erratic rhythm.

She smirks and nips at his earlobe. "No more questions," she commands. Then she sucks his ear into her mouth and all rational thought escapes.

Hours later, as they lay naked in each other's arms, he places his chin onto her shoulder and murmurs: "Welcome home, Mrs. Bartowski."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Bartowski," Sarah replies, her voice slightly husky. _Home._ Their _home._ It's the first time in her life that she can ever remember having a home. The thought causes her chest to fill with warmth and she cuddles into his chest, a tender smile on her face.

"Well, I guess it really is home," Chuck states after a moment, a trace of mischief in his tone. "Now that we've christened the bedroom, anyway." Turning to look at him, she chuckles throatily when he gives her the famous eyebrow dance.

"Oh, I don't know," she grins, just as mischieviously. Pulling herself up onto her elbows, a devilish glint enters her deep blue eyes. "We've still got at least eight more rooms to go. Nine, if you count the walk-in closet." And then she pounces, capturing his lips in a searing kiss.

As they tumble into a mass of limbs, their tongues tangling tortuously, he decides that the walk-in closet most definitely counts.


End file.
